


Stop Motion

by Dollar



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Episode Tag, Gen, season 7
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2013-05-19
Packaged: 2017-12-11 11:44:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/798385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dollar/pseuds/Dollar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Dean ganks Dick Roman and disappears to parts unknown, Sam tries to decide what to do and behaves in a completely sane and rational manner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Gone. Dean is gone. Nothing but an empty air where he once stood. Sam circles the spot, staring at the space his brother had occupied seconds before. He doesn't want to move away. It's not real, Sam has learned the hard way so many things in his life are just not the way they seem. It's a mistake, a glitch in the fabric of something or other. He blinks, squeezing his eyes shut and popping them open. Because this has to be a hallucination, he knows about those. Horrible things in his head, that hurt and scare him and this is what this is. He doesn't care about Dick Roman or the Leviathans and Cas comes and goes as he pleases, but Dean does not just vanish. Not on Sam's watch.

It's a trick and Sam is not going to fall for it. Crowley is wrong, he's not on his own and if he is, it is most certainly a temporary state. He reaches out, tentatively fingers curling around emptiness. He spins on his heels, around and around, expecting Dean to appear in a corner or jump up from behind a desk. He doesn't. Sam closes his eyes again and something like a prayer falls treacherously from his lips.

When I open my eyes, he is going to be here. When I open my eyes, he is going to be here.

Sam repeats the mantra under his breath, tensing every muscle to will his brother back from wherever. The room stays silent and a noise echoes down an adjacent corridor. Sam opens his eyes to an empty room.

There is someone coming and he has to leave, he slides out of the building and lurks in the shadows across the road, watching and waiting. Dean is somewhere around, has to be. He'll come skeddadaling along the sidewalk, sauntering along the road any minute, smug about putting one over on his little brother. They won, they vanquished the enemy and Dean will be unbearable about it for a few days.

Sam waits and watches, people scurrying to and fro, the building cordoned off from the general public. It's dark and then it's not, and still no Dean. Sam tries to call him. The connection crackles and dies.

Sam's muscles start to cramp and he's getting cold so he creeps off to find the car.

Sam drives around, stopping and starting. Keeping watch, Dean will reappear he knows this and believes it with every frayed fiber of his being. A week later and Sam thinks that maybe he should look elsewhere, right? He checks his phone constantly, his fingers itching for it if he puts it down for more than five minutes. No calls, no texts, no nothing.

He refuses to panic, to let his thoughts run away from him and get him tangled up in lies and possibilities that he won't be able to escape. He needs to be calm and quiet, take each step with measured consideration. Stupid impulsive decisions and gut reactions have never led him anywhere other than to Hell and back. He won't do that this time. No demons or their blood or their deals or anything really that smacks of the supernatural. It always, always backfires, usually right in his face and Dean would be pissed if he did it again. And anyway it has only been a few days, each minutes seems to stretch out for hours at a time. He has to take his time, he has no choice, he can't rush this.

He thinks vaguely about eating something, but his stomach cramps at the thought, and getting out of the comfort of the car takes too much effort. So he drives, cars on the highways race past him, shapeless blurs of color and light, people glide along the sidewalks at a pace that reminds him of speeded-up film, their movements jerky and comical. Not that he finds it funny, but he finds himself gazing with curiosity as the world speeds up around him and he floats gently along through an ever-increasing maelstrom of life.

He begins to find that the effort of negotiating the improbably fast landscape he now seems to inhabit requires all his concentration. He decides he needs a safe and secluded spot to make those plans that will reveal Dean's whereabouts to him. The thought makes him start. Dean might be there. He scowls at himself in the rearview mirror; of course, Dean would head for somewhere they both know.

He could be waiting there impatiently for him. Sam thinks briefly about checking his phone again, but it's dark and the oncoming headlights flare at the edges of his vision, it can wait just a bit. He presses him foot to the gas and the pedal groans in complaint, stiff and unyielding beneath his foot. The engine replies with a whirring whine and the car carries on at its own steady pace. Sam relaxes his grip on the steering wheel and nods to himself, he'll get there when he gets there.

When he gets to the cabin, it is dark and empty and cold. His first instinct is to turn around and keep going but there's a stack of seasoned firewood, he wonders who took the time to chop it, and a haphazardly stacked pile of books leaning against the window. Who knows what secrets they might reveal? He can find no sense of urgency within himself, and a sting of sadness flares across his chest and he stops in the doorway and takes a deep breath. He will not grieve or cry. He will not be trapped by his own fears and grief, this time. He will not become a broken beacon of despair, attracting every soul-sucking piece of dirt that exists only to torment the foolish and unprepared. He will find his brother on his own terms, if Dean doesn't find him first.

Sam builds the fire carefully and sits crossed legged by the hearth staring at the flames for far longer that he intends to. The warmth on his face is a surprising comfort and flickering of yellow and orange do not disturb any slumbering memories, they dance slowly, their twisting dance quite predictable and the crackles of the sun-baked pine are muted, as if respecting Sam's wish for peace and solitude. The silence in the cabin is restful and Sam nods off in front of the fire, despite himself. He does not dream.

He's curled up in front of a cold pile of ashes when he awakes, the cold light of early morning sunshine peeking through the window. The cabin and its contents are still and an air of expectancy settles over him. There's instant coffee in a cupboard and it tastes bitter and sharp. Sam drinks it slowly and wonders how long it will be before Dean comes back to him, because that is what his brother always does and it really doesn't matter what he and or anyone else tries to do. Sam will not consider any other possibility.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam waits at the cabin and is decidedly sane.

Sometime later, he relights the fire and checks his phone. Afterwards he stands in the middle of the room, fire warm on his back and stares at the piles of book and papers stuffed into corners and cupboards. There’s all sorts of stuff in those old pages, information that might give him at least an idea of where to start. He tries to think of someone to call but there’s no one he can think of who would understand and the thought of trying to explain Dean’s disappearance to a disembodied voice over an unreliable phone makes his palms sweat and his heart do a funny little flip in his chest. He remembers Kevin and struggles to recall why he is important; he’s only a kid, a scared one at that. What can he do? 

He decides to do some light housework. Six hours and many dust bunnies later the cabin is tidy and the contents an ancient packet of ramen noodles is simmering on the stove. He checks his phone and glances around and takes a step toward his bag, his laptop inside and hesitates, bile burns suddenly at the back of his throat and he swallows with distaste. He takes another step toward it and that’s as far as he gets. Where does he even start? Dean’s gone again, always leaving him, dying again and again and again, expecting Sam to pick up the pieces and toddle along as if his heart hasn’t been ripped from his chest and stomped on. Dean’s expectations have always been greater than Sam’s ability to meet them. 

“Please come back, Dean. I don’t know what to do,” Sam whispers, raising his head and eyes, he quickly looks back down, Dean’s not in heaven because he’s not dead. No portal opened and dragged him to Hell, nothing reached from the beyond and dragged him to some alternate reality. He just vanished. He was not dead. Sam goes outside and brings in more firewood, a robin sings loudly from a nearby tree, the notes are high and sweet, neither too fast or too slow. Sam stops and listens for a minute, losing himself in the melodic trilling, watching the warm red of the bird’s feathers ruffle in the slight breeze. When he steps back inside the fire has almost gone out, the smoldering wood black and fragile, Sam stares at it confusion, he wasn’t gone any time at all. It takes him a while to get it going again. He eats his noodles in front of the fire.

He goes to sleep in his clothes again, a cold cup of coffee still grasped in his hand when he awakes. He makes a fresh cup of coffee and tries to decide how to spend the day. He leaves his bag where it is and avoids looking at the various books now neatly lined along slightly lopsided shelves.

He finds himself a sheet of blank paper and a pen intending to write a list of the steps he needs to take to find his brother. First he checks his phone and makes one call. Dean doesn’t answer.

His pen hovers over the paper but he can’t decide what to write. After a moment his pen decides for him. Dean, it writes. Is, he writes, where? He writes his own name and adds a 2 next to it. Twice dead. He underlines the word Dean and then a question mark, then guides his pen to the figure 2 and taps it because it doesn’t seem quite right. Was it 2 or more? He scratches his head with the pen and crosses out the 2. It’s more than that, but just how many more? Huh. He’ll have to think about that one. He writes another name, Bobby. Well, was that 1 or 2? This is harder than he thought. So he writes another name down and then another. All those people who have died in the course of his life, mostly those he was there for, or caused their toes to turn up or stopped them from dying and then maybe let go too soon. Those that were his fault, those that were Dean’s, those whose names he never knew, like the guy in Oklahoma, with the pierced eyebrow and beady eyes.

After a bit he fetches another piece of paper and as he writes the list, he experiments with his handwriting, sloping one way, adding a loop or two here and there; it’s a long list. He pins it to the wall and studies it dispassionately. How it will help him find Dean, he has no idea, but at least he’s done something. His stomach rumbles quietly so he goes and heats some wieners and beans. There’s about 10 cans huddled in the end of a kitchen shelf, with them and the half a jar of coffee he’s good for a few days. 

He quickly loses track of the time. He took his watch off at some point and now can’t find it. There are no working clocks in the cabin and if there are any batteries to replace he hasn’t looked and doesn’t intend to. Half of one side of the cabin wall is now papered with his hand written lists and notes. Pinned in uniform rows and columns, a life size spreadsheet that flutters and rustles every time he opens the door, he had found a red pen at some point and every third sheet is written in bright scarlet. Like scattered blood drops on a white bed sheet, they remind Sam that because of his choices and his actions a lot of people died in nasty, brutish ways. 

The center piece of paper had four words on it, written in capitals but not underlined, as Jessica had always reminded him as he slumped over another assignment, one or the other, but not both. Sam can’t help thinking that it's a metaphor for something, as he traces a shaky finger over the words: DEAN IS COMING BACK. He faces the wall every evening and reads everything he has written and always ends on that particular notation, knowing he will find Dean even if he isn’t looking for him and that Dean will find him even if he doesn’t know he should. Sam ignores the tiny voice that cries out from the far reaches of his mind, the one that seems to have thing about logic and common sense, coupled with words about hiding and losing your goddamn mind. He knows all about such things and in his opinion, and really there is no one else to offer up an alternative, he is completely and utterly as sane as he has ever been. 

About the same time the beans run out Sam realizes that he hasn’t had a shower in more than a few days and his head itches just a little. The afternoon air feels warm and humid and outside the scent of the forest hangs heavy in the breeze. Sam strips off his clothes and stands in the open doorway, in his underwear, there’s no one around to smell him anyway. He scratches at his belly and lifts an arm for a quick sniff; he coughs loudly at the fumes. Maybe washing himself isn’t such a bad idea, after all if Dean should suddenly decide to appear he probably wouldn’t enjoy hugging such a stinky brother. Sam nods to himself, because when Dean comes back Sam is going to hug the stuffing out of him, whether he likes it or not. He bends down and scoops his clothes off the floor and tries not to think about how much he would like a hug right now. 

His phone falls from the back pocket of his jeans, he runs a finger across the screen. The battery has died. Sam glares at it resentfully for a couple of seconds and then tosses it at a nearby shelf, he misses and it clatters to the floor. He doesn't look to see where it falls as he heads for the small bathroom at the back of the cabin.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam writes letters, shares his toast and a stranger comes to call.

The clothes Sam pulls on after his shower, have been crammed at the bottom of his bag for too long and the wrinkles have taken up permanent residence. The mirror in the bathroom is small and spotted with black, little empty holes where the silver surface under the glass has worn away. Sam stares at his face, an incomplete reflection gazing back at him, he pushes his hair from his face and wonders who the sickly looking kid who won't meet his eyes really is.

His supplies are now non-existent, no food, no coffee and only half a roll of toilet paper left. Desperate times call for desperate measures, Sam is going to have to go shopping.

The Impala is covered in a light layer of dust and more than a few hits of bird poop.

"I'm sorry," he apologizes to the car before sliding behind the wheel. The car grunts at him as his backside hits the seat. She doesn't sound that put out, he turns the keys in the ignition and the engine coughs to life and growls encouragingly as he pulls away from the cabin. The nearest store is a good half hour away. Sam tunes the radio to 33.3 AM, Christian Talk Radio and listens to a mother of ten and a Baptist Minister discuss the rise of Satan and its direct correlation with the slow decline in the teaching curriculum of elementary schools.

"I met him once, you know," he addresses the radio as he waits at an intersection, he glances at the passenger seat from the corner of his eye, but it remains determinedly empty. He grips the steering wheel overly tightly when he realizes he just the teeniest bit disappointed.

At 'Custer's General Store', which Sam's almost certain is in poor taste, he buys five flats of various canned foods, the biggest can of instant coffee he can find, some fruit because he's not too convinced that he isn't exhibiting at least some of the symptoms of scurvy, toilet paper and a large bottle of manly smelling shampoo. Sam isn't going to be caught off guard when Dean shows up, the least he can do is have clean hair and smell nice.

The guy at the checkout looks him up and down with an assessing eye, Sam peers down through his bangs and is just about to ask him what precisely his problem is when the guy hands him a coupon and tells him he can use it to pick up yesterday's baking from the back of the store. For free. Sam mumbles his thanks and goes back to the cabin with half a dozen strawberry frosted cupcakes and bag of Danish pastries. He refuses the extra flaky apple pie. He drinks instant coffee, black with lots of sugar and eats all of the cupcakes in one sitting and doesn't even feel sick. Dean would be proud.

The old red battered couch is marginally more comfortable than the floor and he and a thick woolly blanket spend the night wrapped up together. He spends much of the day writing, letters this time. The first one is to Jess and once he starts he finds it very hard to stop. All the things he never told her, all the things he had wanted so desperately to tell her and most all that he's sorry. He doesn't pin it to the wall, he folds in carefully and tucks it inside a book. Upon closer inspection he realizes it's a family bible from a century or so back. A fading family tree in various hands and inks meanders across the inner bindings, it's illustrated and he flicks through looking at the scenes depicted with an artist's overly melodramatic license. One in particular catches his eye, a man with a snake wrapped around his arm, its fangs bared and a fire flaring up behind them. He rubs a finger over the muted colors.

"Sucker," he whispers to himself. He writes more letters in the days that follow, the one to his father takes him two days; there's scrunched and torn paper all over the floor by the time he's finished and he's shaking with anger. He folds the letter and puts it with the others. He hasn't written to Dean, but then Dean, unlike all the others, isn't dead.

The weather is slowly getting warmer and the forest is noisier than ever. Sam notices that whenever he goes outside the birds and squirrels and other assorted critters take no notice of him whatsoever, and just carry on their business around him.

He leaves the door open on one particularly sunny afternoon and looks up to see a fat raccoon sitting not two feet away blinking up him as it rips open the foil packaging off one of his cereal bars and stuffs it greedily into its mouth.

"Hello," says Sam and turns back to his letter, this one is to his mother. It's not easy to write a letter to someone you've never met. Ghosts and alternate realities or timelines don't count.

The days and weeks spill over into another month and he can count the number of people he's seen in that time on one hand.

He's at the stove trying to melt some sealing wax he found at the back of a drawer, it's blue and decades older than he is and the perfect finishing touch to his letters, when he hears it. A car or maybe a truck, the engine is throaty and rough and coming his way.

Bill, who's eating a piece of toast, growls in alarm and waddles to the door, Sam grabs his Beretta, sticks it in the back of his waistband before reaching for the shotgun lying under the couch. It's not loaded and he lets loose a stream of curses. There are boxes of shells in the basement, too far away, he scrabbles at the cupboard by the 'fridge and finds a half empty box. The gun's loaded as he hears the engine cut off and he pulls open the door. Bill, still clutching his crusts bolts off at a surprising speed for a raccoon of such ample girth, past the ex-army jeep parked outside. Sam stands in the door way, gun raised. He doesn't want visitors and he doesn't need to see anybody, he has things to do.

"Whoa there," a man's voice calls out as the driver's side door opens on the other side to Sam and his visitor, with arms raised comes slowly around the front of the jeep. He's a big guy, Sam tightens his hold on the shotgun, tall, maybe even than Sam and broader, his shaved head dark and gleaming in the sun. He's wearing what looks like army parka; Sam can see the holes left by the stitches after badges and insignia that have been removed. He's older than Sam, by how much he can't tell, could be a decade maybe even two. Sam cocks the hammer and tilts his head.

"Rufus around?" The stranger asks. Sam can't quite place his accent, he shakes his head emphatically. Parka guy is quick on the uptake.

"Damn," he glances around and shrugs. "Look the old geezer was a second cousin, or whatever. I left some things here a few years back. Before I got posted. If I can just pick them up, I'll leave you and your friend in peace." He smiles, hands still high and nods towards a clump of bushes. Bill is hissing at him from the undergrowth.

Sam stares unblinking at his visitor with the strange lilt in his voice. The accent of someone who has spent time, a long time, in parts foreign. Sam decides that he doesn't feel like shooting anyone today and if the guy's a threat, he's not sure what difference it makes in the long run. He lowers his gun and steps back into the cabin and waits.

The man fills the doorway, casting a long, wide shadow across the floorboards. He glances around, he eyes resting briefly on Sam's pinned lists, then coming to meet Sam's gaze. He smiles again, broad and genuine. Sam thinks it's genuine. He'd be the first to admit he's out of practice when it comes to assessing heartfelt or other such facial expressions.

"David. David Clay." The man drops his voice, a strangely gentle tone and Sam wants to tell him that he shouldn't worry about frightening Bill, because Bill is a greedy little shit who would sell his own mother for a Twinkie, but David is extending his hand and before Sam can process what he's doing his own hand is engulfed in a warm and firm handshake.

David looks at him expectantly. Oh, Sam thinks surprised that anyone would be that interested.

"Sam." His voice comes out lower and raspier than he expected and he ducks his head, hair falling over his face.

'Okay, Sam. I'll go see if my stuff is still downstairs." David moves past him carefully, giving Sam and the shotgun plenty of space. Sam sits by the kitchen table and waits. It's not long before David appears with a small wooden crate in his arms. It's quite clearly marked with the initials D.C. and covered in enough dust to lend credence to his story.

He stops at the open doorway. "Pity about Rufus."

"Yeah." Sam nods. "He was, he was one of the good guys." Weren't they all, Sam thinks bitterly and wipes a hand across his face. He looks up and David hasn't moved.

"Look, kid. I've got a bottle of Johnny Walker in the glove box. Was for the old man." David puts down the crate and points to himself. "So why don't I go get it." He points at Sam. "You grab a couple of glasses. For Rufus."

"Sure," Sam agrees and goes to pull mismatched glasses from the cupboard.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam doesn't drink too much and punches someone.

Sam leans back in his chair, the Beretta pressing into his back as David sloshes a generous shot into each glass. Sam slides a hand across the table, pulling the glass slowly towards him. His other hand stays resting on his thigh. It's not so much that he doesn't trust his new drinking buddy; it's that he can see absolutely no reason for the trust to extend in the other direction. Sitting in the middle of nowhere having a drink with a total stranger, who has no reason to believe anything you might have to say, is a good a recipe as any for getting dead. Sam smiles tightly, despite himself. Easy come, easy go.

"Salut." David raises his glasses and knocks back at least half of the contents. Sam takes a small measured sip. The alcohol rushes across his tongue and blazes a trail of heat down his throat and beyond. He clears his throat, clenching the hand on his thigh. The scar bisecting his palm is itching, and he desperately wants to scratch at it. He tries not to twitch. His visitor's eyes dart briefly around the cabin, Sam knows that David has taken in every facet of his environment; he's assessed and analyzed everything around him, including Sam. His bearing and casual demeanor can't hide what Sam has been long been taught to recognize. Someone or more often, something capable of doing whatever necessary to fulfill their needs. Sam doesn't know what David wants or needs and it's a variable in his routine that causes his heart to flutter with uncertainty.

David is speaking; Sam drags his attention to the words falling across the table and concentrates on making sense of them.

"..place looks tidier than I remember. Rufus never was that house proud. His father built it, you know?" Sam clutches the glass in hand and attempts to school his expression into one of interest. It's hard to focus on the face in front of him, Sam would like nothing better than to turn away from this stranger, but it's a risk he can't take.

"So," say David, and Sam shifts in his seat. "You were a friend of Cousin Rufus?"

Sam blinks slowly. "Colleague," he intones flatly, this is not a discussion he has any intention of pursuing. David sighs loudly and swallows more whiskey.

"Hunting. Right? Boogey men, things that go bump in the night. The unseen enemy of the living. And all that hocus pocus. Man, I warned him." He shakes his head. "He tried to get me interested in his field trips. Huh." David laughs quietly. "I always told him that I don't have time for chasing phantoms and staking Dracula, there are plenty of humans living and breathing that cause more trouble for more people that a few disembodied spooks."

He stops and pours himself another shot, not as much this time Sam notes, he's got a lot of muscle mass, no doubt it would take quite a few shots before his reflexes were in any way diminished. David has a nice voice, Sam thinks, he speaks in a tone of genial amusement and he's smiling the whole time. Sam is very aware of the man's physical presence. He seems to fill the room with a sense of warmth and his face open and sincere; his dark brown eyes reflect a calm, compassionate intelligence.

Sam wants him gone. He's filling up Sam's space with life and breath and a dangerous aura of energy that prickles against Sam's skin and is settling across the cabin. It's a smothering weight that Sam can actually feel pushing down on him, making his head ache and his heart thump hard against his ribs. He can feel the sweat starting to pool on his back and stick to his shirt, he takes another tiny sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving his visitor.

"He helped people." Sam puts his glass down. "He knew the cost. We all do." He winces internally, too much, too close to home. A string of thoughts he's suddenly powerless to stop begins to unravel untidily across his mind. There is no 'we' anymore. The cost has always been too high. People like David didn't care and didn't understand. Sam can't help but drop his gaze, his eyes are stinging and the little bit of whisky he has drunk is making him feel lightheaded; his head is starting to pound.

He hears the scrape of a chair across the floor and snaps his head back up, hand instinctively going to the small of his back and he's on his feet shoving away from the table. David blinks up at the gun barrel pointing at his face and raises his hands slowly. He quirks an eyebrow, he's just dragged the chair closer to the table and Sam feels his face heat up. His hand wavers and he drops his stance. He takes a deep breath; it catches painfully in his chest. It feels like it's getting harder to breathe.

"Uh, sorry and I'm sorry about Rufus. I am. I was there when we buried him." So was Dean, Dean said things, important things but Sam can't, won't think them about now. "But if you're looking for more than that," Sam shakes his head, "There's not much I can do." It's the most he's said to anyone in weeks.

David is unruffled. "I'm not after anything, kid. Rufus' business was his own. Not mine." He stands and smiles ruefully. "I'll go. Keep the whiskey. Not really my thing."

Sam watches him pick up his crate and shut the door behind him. His stomach spasms just as he hears the engine roar to life and bending double he drops back into his chair. He feels shaky and weak. He sets his Beretta down in the middle of the small table; his head is swimming, so he stretches out his arm across the tabletop and lays his head down. The gun is at eye level, barrel pointing away. Sam puts a finger by the trigger and spins the gun around and around. It has excellent balance; it wobbles slightly but maintains a steady axis, the barrel passing his forehead every few seconds.

Sam has no moral objections to putting a bullet between his eyes. If he could cease to exist, well, that would be a different matter. Death, on the other hand is low on his list of options, as ultimately it would most likely be a waste of time and materials. He's been to Hell, or something like it. Heaven was no better and the repercussions were just as painful and the idea of his spirit and mummified corpse spending their days confined to Rufus' cabin has a limited appeal. More importantly Dean is coming back and Sam is going to be there waiting for him.

Sam closes his eyes as the gun rotates, opening them at random intervals to see if he can guess where the barrel will be pointing. His body is slowly starting to relax as the daylight begins to fade and the room around him retreats into a dusky gloom. The gun gleams dully and spins silently. Sam starts to drift, fingers still resting on the trigger.

He's teetering on the edge of consciousness, when a small sound registers with his slowing senses and suddenly, there's a shadowed figure looming above him. Something slams down on the Beretta and Sam jerks his head up as claws clamp down on his shoulder, the touch burning into his flesh like barbed meat hooks. He screams in shock and in rage, twisting around and grabbing at his assailant, wrenching the hand on his shoulder down and slamming into the broad figure standing over him, feeling its bones grind together under his hands. Sam wants to snap them all.

They hit the floor, Sam brings a knee up, but an elbow hits him high in the chest. He screams again, there's no pain only fury bubbling up and pouring out of him, his fist finds something hard and bony and there's a grunt of pain. There's someone's voice nearby, there are words but Sam doesn't understand them.

"No," Sam yells, "no." He's spitting and screaming and he doesn't want to stop, he kicks out and scrambles upright, lunging at the figure coming towards him, its hands reaching for him, palms outward and open.

"Sam." It says. "Sam. Stop." There's only one voice that Sam wants to hear and it's not this one. "Dean," he screams. "He's coming back. He's coming back to me."

They crash into the wall, Sam rakes his nails over exposed skin, he can't see but he can feel and he can inflict hurt. Something solid catches him under the chin and before he can react he pressed face into the log beams of the cabin wall, paper crinkling around him. His arms are pinned behind him, his neck held immobile by rigid steel fingers. He kicks and bucks, only the pressure on his arms and weight on his back increases. He pants furiously and whines low in his throat. He can't hear, see or move.

He's crushed up against the wall for what seem like hours until his panting slows, and gradually he becomes aware of the sound of harsh breathing in his ear, the feel of the wood walls and the blur of white paper around him. The suffocating warm weight of someone holding him. His face is wet.

"Sam. Sam can you hear me." The voice is quiet and a little breathless. Sam ignores it.

"Sam, I need you to answer me. Can you do that, Sam?" The voice is insistent. Sam grunts.

"Nice try kid, but I need words. I will let you go but you need to tell me you're okay."

Sam tries to remember where he has heard the voice before. He wants to move his head, the interlocked hands on his neck are hot and searing his skin. He licks his lips.

"David?" he croaks, his throat is sore and feels raw for some reason.

"Yep. Can I let you go?" David voice is steady and matter of fact, his grip loosens a little and Sam draws in a heavy breath. He can feel the tension in the body behind him.

"I'm okay. You can let go now." David releases his hold and steps back and Sam slides bonelessly down to the floor, crumpling onto the sheets of paper ripped from the wall as he slumps to his side.

David's moving across the darkened room and Sam screws his eyes shut as the light comes on, and then he's back and squatting down a good arm's length from Sam.

"Did I hurt you?" Sam squints at him, one side of David's face is starting to swell and there are parallel scratches scored into his neck. "I didn't mean to scare you."

Sam snorts quietly, he's too drained too speak. He looks down at the papers around him and with clumsy hands fumbles to gather them together. He doesn't object when David scoots closer to help him. He lets David take them gently from him and tap them into a tidy pile on the table top, leaving them there. He comes back and leans over Sam.

"I'm going to help you up now. Okay. Let me know I can do that?" Sam nods and lets David pull him up and guide him to the couch and his blanket. A glass of water appears in front of him; Sam drinks it gratefully and watches as David picks something up from under one of the chairs. It's the Beretta. David pockets the magazine and places the gun on top of the stack of papers sitting on the table, he looks over to Sam meeting his eyes with a solemn gaze.

Sam wants to tell him that he's got it all wrong, that a Good Samaritan is the last thing Sam needs, but he's having difficulty keeping his eyes open. The blanket has made its way up to his shoulders and he decides that he's had enough for one day.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bacon is cooked, Sam gets a pretty journal and discovers something he wishes he hadn't.

It's barely dawn, when Sam wakes. He lies still, disorientated, eyes shut against the dull morning light. There's a noise coming from the door. It takes him some time to gather his wits, eventually the layers of sensation slide into place and he remembers who he is and where he is. It's much the same every morning, although today comes with a sharper pang of anxiety and he can't quite remember why. He sits upright as the sound of scratching comes from the door. He knows the sound. It's Bill. Sam pushes aside his blanket and goes to open the door. Bill ambles slowly in, pausing to sniff at Sam's ankles before making his way to the kitchen cupboards.

"Toast?" Sam asks. Bill rubs his paws over his face and fixes Sam with a hopeful gaze. As he shuts the front door Sam sees a second vehicle parked next to the Impala and remembers David. He freezes and then from across the cabin he hears the faint and slow, rhythmic sound of someone snoring, it's drifting down the ladder-like stairs at the back of the cabin. There's a room with a sloping ceiling and old bed, with a mattress that has seen better days, lurking amid boxes full of God-knows-what up there, Sam prefers the openness of the downstairs.

He goes to boil some water for coffee and makes some toast.

"Marmalade. You're feeding a raccoon toast and marmalade?" David's rubbing a hand over the smooth skin of his scalp and yawning, Sam notices that he winces at the stretch of the bruised skin over his cheek. Bill stops eating for a second to hiss quietly and retreats under the table.

Sam sips his coffee and shrugs. "It was on sale." David makes his way over to the stove and the recently boiled kettle. He stops and hangs his head. Sam watches him warily, his Beretta is still in the middle of the table, he reaches out and runs his fingers over the papers underneath, thinking of all the things that he has yet to write down, all those people and places and the damage that he's left in his wake.

"Instant coffee. You drink instant coffee." David sounds stunned and he turns to stare at Sam, horrified. "Look, I can understand a man needing to have a little Thoreau time, but there are limits to such desperation."

Sam's picks up his cup slowly, ignoring the sudden spark of curiosity the flares within him. "No one invited you to stay. No one invited you to do whatever you thought you were doing last night." Sam knows what the other man must have been thinking and wonders why he cared to come back to a stranger he'd never met before.

David runs his finger over the raised scratches on his neck. "Interesting fighting style you have there, and I came back because despite it all I'm not the type of person who passes by on the other side of the street if I think I can help."

"I told you, I don't need a…" Sam starts, David cuts him off.

"I thought you were going to blow your brains out. I could have kept going but I didn't. In fact, I shouldn't have left in the first place. I know the signs and I apologize that I thought about ignoring them. Not my usual MO, but then you are a bit prickly. And trigger happy. When I came in and saw you slumped over the table, it was dark and I assumed I was too late. Obviously, I was wrong, about that anyway. I know I startled you, so no harm no foul on that front."

Sam stares at the gun in front of him as he listens to David's voice pitched to a quiet and soothing tone and frowns, there's that uncomfortable feeling again. The intrusive itch against his skin, it's distracting and he knows at the very least, he should try to explain that he is not in need of any help and that David and his concern can leave him in peace. A small part of him is warmed at the thought that someone cares, but he quashes the sentiment quickly.

"I have more than one gun, you know." Sam tries to explain.

"That's reassuring." David replies and Sam can feel his eyes on him but he won't look up, focused instead on his small distorted reflection rippling across the surface of his coffee.

He struggles to find the right words, he's out of practice. "I'm not going to kill myself. I can't and even if I did I have no idea how effective it would be." And Dean would have harsh words to say about it and Sam. "So thanks and all that, but you can go." Sam forces himself to look up to meet David's eyes. The room is silent except for the sound of Bill crunching on the last of his toast.

"Maybe, but this is my family's place. So, I could do with a little bit of down time, some fresh air and maybe I'll go buy some decent coffee. Okay with you?" Before Sam can thing of a suitable reply, David grins at him and makes his way across the room to the back, Sam hears the bathroom door shut. He peers down at Bill, who is brushing crumbs out of his whiskers.

"It's alright; I don't think he likes marmalade."

After David emerges from the bathroom, he asks Sam if there's anything he needs as he's going on a supply run. Sam's at the fireplace, cross legged on the floor, burning his papers. Most of them are crumpled and a few are torn and more than that he can't have anyone else looking at them. They are a list of his sins, his failures and his all too numerous mistakes and now, like everything in his life he is forced to burn them. Feeding the flames with the ruined paper is actually a lot easier than he thought it would be.

He keeps his eyes to the flames as he answers, the words trip from his mouth without prior consent from his brain.

"I need a notebook, lined, hardback and some pens." He adds, "Thanks," as an afterthought. He does not hear the door close or an engine starting. Each fistful of paper he adds makes the fire flare up until there is none left, apart from one sheet. Sam smoothes carefully over his knee, it has four words written on it, in red ink. He folds it up and slides it into his back pocket and watches the glowing embers for a while. It seems that he will not even be allowed to search for his brother in the solitude he needs to form his thoughts and plans, although he is sure David will not stay long, no one ever stays with Sam for very long.

He doesn't remember falling asleep, but the next thing he knows is there's a voice calling him and a mug of coffee suddenly appears before him. He shakes his head and automatically grabs the cup. It's made with milk, frothy and hot and smells like it's freshly ground. David has returned, crouched down not too close to him, that same assessing look on his face. There's a noise coming from behind, Sam sniffs.

"Is that bacon. What time is it?" He tastes the coffee, bitter and delicious. David straightens up.

"Breakfast time. Come on." Sam stretches out his stiff legs, and follows. On the stove there's a strange looking pot, made of stainless steel with an angled tube rising from the lid, it's next to a skillet of eggs and bacon. Sam's stomach rumbles a warning; it's been a while since he's eaten anything other than days old baked goods or canned stuff.

David is watching him. "Like my stove top espresso maker?" He pats it fondly. "You would not believe the places that thing has been. Now sit." Sam complies.

He eats a little, quickly feeling full. David eats heartily, there is no conversation until David takes both plates from the table. "Oh, I got what you asked for. It's on the couch. There wasn't much choice, hope you don't mind."

On the couch is a large note book. On the cover is the picture of a unicorn against an abstract background of black and purple swirls, dotted with white stars. Next to it is a small packet of pens. "There are no such things as unicorns," Sam whispers to himself and smiles at his own private joke. "Thanks," he says, allowing his amusement to color his words. "It's perfect."

Later, when his visitor has disappeared into the great outdoors, Sam sits on the couch and cracks the spine of his new notebook. He has no idea of the date or even the day so he can't start with that. He presses his pen determinedly to the page, it's not like he's writing a letter, more of a daily bulletin, he decides and although he can almost hear Dean's voice accusing him of being more of a teenage girl that usual, he start with, 'Dear Dean,'.

They fall into an easy routine, David seems to have a thing for being outside and a pathological need to tidy, which suits Sam because after the initial annoyance at having another person invading his space, it remains pretty much his own. David moves some things from his jeep to the upstairs room, including the crate that he originally retrieved from the basement. Sam hears him shifting things around, along with a few colorful curses questioning Rufus' sanity and his predilection for collecting useless bits and pieces. Sam thinks that Rufus probably knew exactly what he was collecting and its usefulness to his business.

Every day he writes in his notebook. It's a rainy morning when he starts on the fifth page; he finishes up and heads for the bathroom. The door has no lock and he surprised to find the room occupied. David's at the sink, adorned with shaving foam, and shirtless. Sam sometimes forgets there's another person around.

"Sorry," he mumbles and starts to back out.

"Hmm," David's concentrating on his task, sweeping his razor over his face and up over his head. Sam pauses in the door way. David has a tattoo covering his shoulder and upper arm, the sweeping lines of the dark blue ink form interlocking circles of varying sizes that also spread onto his back. Sam can't quite make the smaller details against the canvas of dark skin, it looks to his eye to be short uniform lines of some script he half recognizes.

He turns away as he shuts the door. He rubs his palms down his jeans, they're sweaty and the idea of some fresh air suddenly has great appeal. Outside it's drizzling and overcast, the rain patters on the leaves as the trees gently shake their branches at him. Sam can feel his anger starting to swell. It's no good, it doesn't matter what he does or where he goes it always finds him. It's a lesson he has failed to learn time and time again. He takes a deep breath; he could drive away now, get into the car and find somewhere else to wait for Dean. Grab his meager possessions and run, and pretend that he never saw the spell inked into David's skin.


End file.
